


10 Things I Tolerate About You

by Saucery



Series: Spideypool Stories [5]
Category: Deadpool (2016), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Adorable, Banter, Boyfriends, Breakfast, But Can Be Considered Interconnected, Class Issues, Comedy, Companionable Snark, Compatibility, Cute Wade, Dating, Domestic Bliss, Each Chapter Is A Standalone Story, Established Relationship, Except When Wade's Taking Them Off, Ficlet Collection, Flirting, Fluff, Funny, GET A ROOM GUYS, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Intimacy, Love, M/M, One Shot Collection, Pancakes, Peter Is Okay With Wade Killing Evil People, Peter Wears The Pants, Possibly On This Ship, Poverty, Randomness, Ridiculous, Romance, Sassy Peter, Saving the World, Sexual Content, Short Stories, Silly, Slice of Life, Sweet, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Vigilantism On A Budget, While Saving Money, Why They're Compatible
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 04:52:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6409534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten short stories about the reasons why Spider-Man and Deadpool belong together, all from Peter’s point of view. (If they were from Wade’s point of view, there’d be, like, ten million reasons. Not ten. So I picked the only doable option.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	10 Things I Tolerate About You

**Author's Note:**

> The title is inspired by [this movie](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0147800/). You know the one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is based on [my Tumblr post](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/post/141974507741/reason-146-for-spideypool) about how both Peter and Wade like saving money. Basically, they’re financially compatible.

* * *

 

Peter isn’t even embarrassed about being a cheapskate, anymore. He used to be, once, when his secondhand shoes and cracked lunchbox set him apart at school, but he’s been poor so long that it’s just a part of his life. There’s stuff he can’t buy, and stuff he can’t do. And he’s fine with that.

Except being poor also means being unable to take someone out on decent dates. For ages, he’d told himself he was only single because he couldn’t afford dating, but that excuse fell flat when Wade showed up, convinced (begged? Cajoled? Wrote horrifyingly corny poems in crayon on origami paper cranes, tied them to pebbles, and threw them through Peter’s open window?) Peter to date him, and then turned out to be the most gloriously cheap date ever.

They don’t go to fancy restaurants. Hell, they barely even go to gas stations. Instead, they hang out at hot dog stands in Central Park or on rooftops above random BurritoVille franchises. They pop their own cheap, by-the-bulk popcorn in Wade’s wonky microwave—seriously, it sounds like a Dalek—before catching a movie at an old movie theater with moldy seats that are no longer a classy wine-red but a rusty copper, like dried blood. Which is great, because Wade tends to have drying blood on him at most times, and this way, the seats won’t stain. Peter self-consciously brushes them off after every show, anyhow, flakes of Wade-blood clinging to his web-sticky fingers.

Then there’s the free science exhibitions that Peter has downgraded from “exciting” to “tolerable” now that he has to put up with Wade’s constant nonsensical commentary on _everything_. Peter has to keep lecturing Wade on what does and does not comply with the laws of physics, and what can and cannot be used as a sex toy (including a Van de Graaff generator). But later, they have make-outs on the front steps of the Hall of Science, so. It all balances out.

Despite Wade’s past as a paid assassin—something Peter still avoids thinking about—Wade is as dirt-poor as Peter is, which means he has cut-out discount coupons stacked in a colorful little pile next to his 1950s telephone, and dusty, dented cans of baked beans from five million years ago in his cupboards, and an ironic photo of a New York parking space above his kitchen platform. It doesn’t hurt that Wade knows where to find the best deals on, well, pretty much anything. But especially chimichangas.

“What’s with the photo of the parking space?” Peter asks one morning, when Wade’s burning pancakes for breakfast, and Peter’s so hungry he doesn’t care. That, and his hamstrings hurt after yesterday’s failed experiment with tantric sex—all Wade’s idea, of course. The least Wade can do is cook. Or singe. Or whatever it is Wade’s doing in the guise of cooking. Peter supposes he’s lucky Wade hasn’t just pulled out a flamethrower and “jizzed fire” everywhere. (Wade’s words from a previous flamethrower incident.)

“Can’t you guess?” Wade waves his doughy spatula and splatters the already-splattered stove. A few of the splatters have grown into near-sentient colonies of fungi.

“Yeah, but I’d like to hear your reason. It’s probably wackier than mine.”

Wade shrugs. “It’s a glimpse into a possible future, Petey. A future I aspire to. A future in which I can afford a car. And a dedicated parking spot. In New York City.”

“That’s… surprisingly normal. For you.”

Wade’s eyes go wide and wounded. “Whaddaya mean? That I’m not normal?”

“You tried to rim me while getting me to do a handstand,” Peter says. “Just last night.”

“I wasn’t the guy who actually did the handstand.”

“Shut the hell up and gimme my pancakes,” Peter grouses, and gets handed two misshapen black circles on a plate.

Wade strokes his ‘Blow The Cook’ apron suggestively, and Peter snorts.

“Forget about it. Not until you learn how to not incinerate things.”

“But wouldn’t you like cream to go with your pancakes, sir?”

“Ugh,” says Peter, squeezing the final dregs of maple syrup from the plastic bottle that’s developed a crick in its neck from being squeezed at the same angle everyday. Peter considers it, makes a strategic decision, and changes the squeezing direction. “Don’t mention semen while I eat.”

Wade sets his own plate on the table. “Not even metaphorically?”

“No.”

“Make him pancakes, he says,” Wade mutters to himself. “No blowjobs, he says. At least I have a blow-up job, tonight.”

“A what?” Peter asks, ears sharp as ever.

“Nothing!”

“Who or what are you blowing up?”

“…a picture of Marilyn Monroe? But, er, the pixels aren’t, um, it isn’t, I might lose image quality ’cause I didn’t save it as a lossless JPEG, and the photo might turn out all blurry. Not that I appreciate Marilyn Monroe’s legs more than I appreciate yours, sweetheart, don’t worry.”

“Wade.”

“I was lying, I’m blowing up a sex doll. I was just too ashamed to admit it.”

“ _Wade_.”

“I’m at that stage where I feel compelled to cope with my midlife crisis by thrusting between the rubbery thighs of an inflatable person. And yes, she’s a person, not an object. Her name is Clara.”

Peter puts his fork down slowly. Very slowly. And gets up.

Wade begins backing away. “She’s beautiful, and I’m sorry for cheating on you with her, but the moment I looked into her blank, creepy baby-blues, I was a goner.”

“What. Are. You. Blowing. Up.”

“The full-stops!” Wade’s back hits the wall. “You’re doing the full-stops you do with villains. _And_ you’re somehow looming over me despite being four inches shorter than me. How do you even do that?”

Peter reaches out to grip Wade’s balls, heavy as they are in Wade’s worn drawstring trackpants. His grip tightens threateningly. Wade squeaks. Peter’s hold on him tightens further. “Start. Talking.”

“Okay,” Wade says. “Okay, Christ. Don’t crush the gonads. How else am I gonna get you pregnant? Ow!” Wade exclaims. “I… might have a date with some explosives?” At another tightening, Wade hastens to clarify: “I’m not getting paid for it! It’s not a slay-for-pay. I stopped doing that. You know I stopped doing that.”

“Then what are you blowing up?”

Wade mumbles inaudibly.

“Louder.”

“The building hiding the data banks of the Crosshatch pedophile ring.”

Peter stares. “You found it.”

“Yep. Got all the names and addresses off it. Gave a printout of the records to the police, and kept a copy for myself. I’mma burn those assholes’ homes to the ground. Preferably with fireworks.”

“What if they’re in their homes?”

“What if they are?”

Huh.

Peter goes back to his pancakes.

Wade breathes a gusty sigh of relief.

“No families,” Peter says, around a mouthful of now-gluggy cold syrup and charred, lumpy batter. It tastes yucky, but he’ll still take it. Waste not, want not, et cetera. “No kids. No spouses. No collateral damage. If anybody else is in a pedophile’s house, it doesn’t get blown up.”

Wade smiles dreamily. “I love it when we negotiate murder terms. So romantic.”

“Yeah, yeah. Sit down and have your breakfast, too. You need your energy to be a vengeful vigilante.”

“I would’ve recharged my batteries even quicker if you’d segued smoothly from ball-crushing to ball-caressing. What a missed opportunity.”

“There was no opportunity. I have food to eat.” Peter points at the chair opposite him. “And so do you.”

Wade performs entirely unnecessary fellatio on his fork throughout breakfast, while gazing soulfully into Peter’s eyes.

Peter ignores him.

 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Want updates and sneak previews? Follow me on [Tumblr](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)! I also run a blog for my [original gay fiction](http://dominiquefrost.tumblr.com/).


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